Pauline

The woman in the flower shop had Polly's nose, eyes, and hair, but she was wearing a dark green sundress whereas Polly was wearing one of pink calico, and Polly’s eyes were framed by tiny round glasses, so she decided they could not be the same. She overheard a shopgirl call the woman Isabella, in addition, which was not Polly’s name. She was Polly; the woman was Isabella. There was nothing but looks to draw them together.

And Polly had other things to do that day. She could not linger in the flower store among the carefully arranged bouquets wondering over a strange woman when she had already obtained her own arrangement. The white and pink peonies she was buying and cradling in her arms would surely, she thought, wilt and rot away to weak brown petals and shriveled stems if she stayed as long as she wished to.

Because the July sun was high and bright in the sky as Polly stepped out onto the sidewalk. She recalled the drought of the previous year, the shriveled plants and pleading PSAs to watch one’s water usage. Polly believed this sun, which seemed already to be beating her poor flowers without mercy, to be a sign that this summer would not be much different from that one, that this was the first day of a potential heatwave. And she noticed, looking at the flowers more closely now, in better light, that they were not as fresh and healthy as they once appeared. There were little brown rims emerging at the base of the petals.

But she thought if she could just get her flowers home, dunk them deep into the cool, resurrecting water, things might turn out alright.

But first she had to:

1. Have lunch to quell the empty rumblings in her stomach.
2. Go back to her apartment, thirty minutes away, and arrange the flowers just so in the window so that, at certain times of the day, the light from the sun would paint tiny pink-and-white dots on her floor, allowing for daily delight and enchantment.
3. Keep her doctor’s appointment at 1:00 pm.

She had written it all out in a list before she even left the house. On paper, in her pocket. So old-fashioned, she was told, but she would not risk being tracked, being known on a day when she did not want to be. She swung her purse to look carefree as she clung the bouquet to her chest.

Polly crossed the street to the diner, bursting with people away from work on their lunch hour, waiting with barely concealed annoyance at the slowness of the service. The small crowd jostled and disoriented Polly when she pushed through the glass door, most distracted by phone calls and never ending text messages to answer. By some small miracle she spotted an open chair at the counter, where she knew she would be served first. She made a dash for it and laid her flowers down on the counter near enough to the edge so that no one could complain about them taking up space.

A man in a stiff blue uniform and a name tag came over to where she sat.

“Turkey sandwich and a glass of lemonade?” He asked.

“Yes, Joe, thank you,” Polly said, “And extra ice, please. It’s sweltering out there.”

He had a plate before her in minutes. There were a few groans from those around her who had been waiting longer than she had. Polly did not pay them any attention, as she was trying to hurry and, it being freshly noon, figured these men had far more time to get their lunch than she did.

Besides, the first bite of that cold turkey sandwich, thick with fresh cut meat, was delightful enough for her to forget any troubles. She had abstained from eating much food for two weeks in the hope that the thing she knew was inside of her would die. For that period she had walked through the world severed and starving, unaware of herself. The turkey sandwich was her reward, her mark of triumph over the thing. She kept her mind clear of anything other than relief while she chewed.

Without the least warning, Polly looked down the counter and saw the woman from the flower shop. She was several seats away, almost obscured by the other diner customers. The noise of their talking was beginning to be unbearable, swirling around Polly’s head and clogging up her ears. She saw the woman’s lips move but could not hear what she said. She would have liked to hear her voice, to know if that, too, was the same as hers.

Polly gulped down the rest of her lemonade without tasting it and left too much cash for her bill on the counter. She did not wait for her receipt. She took her bouquet and pushed her way out of the diner. When she emerged again under the glare of the sun, she saw a few white petals drift downward and land on the sidewalk.

“Oh, dammit!” she cried, louder than she intended. She looked around to see if anyone had heard her. No one seemed to even notice her presence. Everyone was walking, going, talking, wrapped up in themselves and the people they had with them. No one looked at Polly.

She bent down to pick up the petals and stuffed them in the plastic wrapper around the flowers. She had a fleeting thought that she could paste them back.

Polly looked down at the shining silver face of her watch. The glint from the sun blinded her for a second, then she saw that it was now twelve thirty. Her heart dropped. The walk through downtown to the doctor’s office was nearly thirty minutes. Even if she ran to her apartment -- which lay in the opposite direction -- and back, she would not have time to put the flowers in water and be on time for her appointment. Against her will, her to-do list shifted. As she walked, she huffed and gritted her teeth, thinking of how silly she would look coming into the doctor’s office with a bouquet of flowers that were already wilting.

“It doesn’t matter,” she tried to tell herself. The words fell out of her mouth, into the air, and disappeared without her mind catching them.

She made it to her appointment ten minutes early. She checked in with the receptionist at the front desk and sat in the blue-striped waiting room, trying to breathe again. She smoothed the bundle of flowers across her lap, crinkling the paper, as if to soothe them.

“Pauline West?” a strange doctor called from the front.

She flinched, since no one called her that outside of her office cubicle; it felt as if she was being called into her boss’ office to be reprimanded, that, in some unperceivable way, she had done wrong. She stood and followed him as he led her to the examination room.

“Dr. Wolf is unexpectedly out today,” he said, “So I’ll be doing your examination.”

“Oh,” Polly said, “well maybe I should just reschedule--”

“Oh, no,” the strange doctor said with a wink, “I’m no dummy. I know that you’ll want to know right away.”

Polly swallowed hard. The AC, cranked up as high as it would go, made her shiver.

“Shouldn’t Nurse Holly be here?” she asked, “Can I see her?”

“Nope, she’s out too,” the doctor said, “Strange sort of bug going around the office.”

He signaled to a young nurse to follow him and Polly to the examination room. The doctor took her to a room tucked away in the back corner of the hall.

He shut the door and had her undress and wrap herself in a stiff paper gown. He made her do everything Dr. Wolf would have had her do, yet there was something about his methods that felt different to her. She looked over at the nurse to see if she noticed anything, but her sweet apple-cheeked face never moved except to give Polly a cute, happy nod.

They both left, and Polly was left alone for a long time. Polly did not dare to look at her watch for fear of knowing just how long he had been absent. She looked at her flowers instead, laying on a corner chair with her purse. They seemed to be withering. She saw more pronounced brown edges in the petals. They needed to be put in water. Polly’s mouth was still dry from the turkey sandwich, and she smacked her lips. She waited for the news she wanted that would allow her to come back to herself for the first time in weeks. She needed the high wave towering over her head to break so she could go on living.

The doctor at last came back, alone, with a huge, dopey grin on his face.

“Congratulations,” he said. She hated him for being happy. She swallowed.

“How far along?” she asked.

“Oh,” the doctor said, looking at his clipboard, “about three months.”

Polly refused to look at him, still staring at her flowers, dying though freshly purchased.

“May I have a glass of water?”

“Of course,” he said, going to the sink to fill up a paper cup, “Do you feel faint? It’s very common to feel faint.”

“No,” she said and put the end of her bouquet in the little cup where it did not fit, “May I take this?”

The doctor shrugged. “I guess so,” he said, “Does Dr. Wolf let you take cups?”

Polly could recall no previous incident in which this would have been necessary. She said, “Yes.”

He shrugged again, “Then it’s alright by me.”

The doctor who was not hers dismissed her and her clumsy paper cup bouquet with a smile. He abandoned her before she was quite out the door.

She ducked into the women’s bathroom and splashed her face and neck with water. She spread some down the back of her neck, under her hair, trying to savor the cooling sensation to bring her back down to Earth. Polly let her head fall back and closed her eyes. The tender touch of her hand became rough, chastising. She forced it away and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was stark white, like the peonies had appeared in the shop.

Polly reached into her pocket and pulled out her to-do list. The itemized events looked back at her; she had done all she had outlined for herself, and there was nothing left. She crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it in the bathroom trash can.

Polly went out into the waiting room, her body more composed. In the only occupied chair was the woman in the green sundress, a magazine open on her lap. She was looking straight ahead. Their eyes met for a moment, then Polly rushed out.

The day had gotten hotter in her absence. Her hair, loose and stringy, clung to her damp neck. She looked at her watch and saw that two hours had passed in the doctor’s office. The sun beat down on her pink calico back and soaked it with sweat as she walked nowhere. She no longer wanted to go home. She no longer wanted to go anywhere at all. She began to walk, roundabout, through the downtown area, to places she had never seen before.

Several times she passed by the post office where Johnny Harris worked. Once she caught a glimpse of him processing packages through the window, but he did not see her. Polly thought about storming in to confront him. She needed to make someone feel her rage, but courage failed her whenever she passed. Eventually she started walking down a different route.

She would, of course, have to tell him soon.

But what to tell him?

I’m pregnant. I’m getting an abortion. That didn’t sound right.

I’m pregnant. I’m keeping it. That didn’t sound right either.

There wasn’t a world that existed for Polly where this decision had to be made.

He had told her, in the dusk-lit darkness of her bedroom, that he would marry her right then if he could. He traced the contours of her naked flesh with his finger, and she shuddered. He smiled. He repeated the promise with more ardor, more seriousness.

“You’re perfect,” he said, “You’re beautiful.”

Polly had listened, was flattered by his words, but could not find any of her own to apply to him. She searched for them now, as the world of downtown encircled her and became strange, and still found nothing.

The setting sun painted the downtown area a smooth, golden orange, and the heat mellowed. The streets became less populated; the shops began to close. Still Polly wandered, unable to stop her feet from moving. She left a trail of flower petals behind her that stayed on the sidewalk for a brief moment until a stray wind or the steps of other people scattered them into the street, where they were crushed by passing cars.

When the last light of the sun had failed and the street lights began to cast their dim beams, Polly became aware of footsteps behind her, matching the rhythm of her own. She turned; she saw the swishing skirt of the green dress first. The woman was a few feet away from her.

Polly began to walk faster, but realized that in all her wandering she had become lost. Every building was empty, the windows dark and broken. The towering buildings were made of chipped brick, and some were missing roofs. There were lofted front doors where front staircases used to be. The gaps between the structures yawned like hungry mouths. The streets were empty of people, animals, and plants. The place had been subsumed by concrete, metal, and brick. Though night had descended, here the air was still thick with heat, trapped in the street between the airless structures. Polly’s dress became wet the faster she walked.

She looked back at the woman and at her feet, but never forward. She turned a corner and found herself swallowed up by one of the alleys, solid walls rising before her on all sides. She turned and saw the woman getting closer. She did not approach with threat or malice, but Polly’s heart raced. She threw her flowers at the woman, the one thing she had in her hand. They bounced off of her and landed on the ground with a plop, their heat-weary, pale green stalks at last shedding all of their petals. The woman did not flinch. She walked on until the tips of her shoes were just inches from Polly’s.

Polly and the woman stood in the dimness of the wide alley, facing each other. It was as if they had reached the end of the Earth, together.

Polly grabbed the woman by her dress collar and shook her. The woman gave her a look of mild surprise.

“Why are you following me?” Polly asked, “Who are you?”

The woman looked at her with the innocence of a lamb. “My name is Pauline West,” she said in a high, sweet tone, “I’m going to marry Johnny Harris and we’re going to have five children together.”

Polly let go of her collar and stared at the woman. She took off her glasses and slipped them into her pocket to transform the woman into a darkened yet crisp mirror image of herself. The woman only allowed her to see it for a moment; she reached into Polly’s dress pocket and pulled the glasses back out, placing them on Polly’s face.

“You may as well go home now Polly,” the woman who called herself Pauline said, “I can very well take it from here.”

Polly said in a thick voice that no longer sounded like hers, “Your name is Isabella. I heard that shopgirl call you that in the flower shop. ‘Cause she knew you.”

The woman furrowed her brow and tilted her head.

“My name is Pauline West,” she said.

Polly looked down at her feet, then back up at the woman. The green dress was loose around her, the folds flowing downward and outward like a welcoming embrace. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail out of her face, a face that did not shine with sweat and worry. The skin was ruddy and healthy, and Polly had never, since she had gone pale at the doctor’s office, felt the color come back to her face. The woman’s eyes were clear, bright, assured.

Polly said, “I guess so.”

“You must be thinking of someone else.”

Polly examined the woman again. Something in her demeanor made her look more like herself than she did. Maybe it was the absence of glasses, or the lively color of her face, or the bright hope in her eyes that Polly once had in abundance. It was as if it had been stolen from her and given to this woman instead.

Polly reached out to touch the woman’s face and found warm, tight flesh. Her hand trembled to find the undeniable reality of what she saw. Polly thought if she touched the woman she would shimmer and disappear, like a reflection in a lake.

Pauline West removed Polly’s hand from her face and let it fall, limp, into her pink pocket. She turned and walked out of the alley, consumed by the darkness of the night outside. Polly watched after her until she disappeared. Without a point to focus on, she found she could not see any longer. She felt her away around the alley to find an escape but was continually, inevitably, met with cold brick.

Polly sank to the dirty ground, her hand falling into a grimy puddle. She whined and rocked herself a little, failing to carve a hole in the concrete large enough for her to fit inside.